


The First Time

by YoYossarian



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Defining the Relationship, F/M, comeback era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-08-20 01:18:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoYossarian/pseuds/YoYossarian
Summary: The first time it happens, they don’t talk about it.





	1. The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta’d, my mistakes are my own. Please let me know what you think! Comments keep me motivated and I appreciate every single one.

_June 2016 - Montreal, Quebec_

The first time it happens, they don’t talk about it. He wakes up just after 7 with a dead arm and a face full of long dark hair; they’re tangled together, warm and naked under the duvet, and his bedroom smells like sex. She’s still asleep, slack mouthed and breathing softly, her back pressed snugly against his chest; it’s their day off, and he’d love to see her get more sleep, but knows that she hates to miss Pilates, so he carefully slides his arm out from under her neck, his leg out from between her’s, and slips out of bed. She mumbles and snuggles deeper into the pillow, but doesn’t wake up.

He navigates by the dim light seeping in around the edges of the blinds, tugging on a clean pair of boxer briefs and gray sweatpants, willing his morning wood away as he pads into the kitchen to start the coffee. It’s 7:15, which leaves thirty minutes until she needs to be dressed and out the door.

Coffee brewing, he surveys the living room where they’d started the previous evening curled up with a movie and a bottle of wine. _Date night_ his brain coughs up, unprompted, before he shakes his his head, picks up the empty wine glasses from the coffee table, and sets them next to the sink. Back in the living room he folds the blanket, lays it over the back of the couch, and gathers their scattered clothes, his t-shirt and her tank top, his gym shorts and her leggings.

__

__

By the time he’s straightened up and stopped in the bathroom to pee (his hair is untamable and there are faint scratch marks on his shoulders), there’s enough coffee to pour her a mug, so he does, adding a splash of the vanilla almond milk he keeps because she likes it, and carries it back down the hall to his bedroom.

She’s still asleep when he comes in, but cracks an eye when he sits down on the edge of the bed and and drops a light kiss on her temple.

“Time to wake up, T,” he says. “I come bearing coffee.”

“Mmhphh,” she grunts in response, but it’s more of an awake grunt than an asleep grunt, so he sets the mug on the nightstand and stands up to crack the blinds.

“You have Pilates in a half hour,” he says, grinning as she buries her head under the pillow to avoid the light. “Your clothes are here or else you can grab something of mine.”

“Mmhphh,” she grunts again, but now she’s peeking out from under the pillow, nose scrunched and green eyes sleepy.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He heads back to the kitchen, shutting the bedroom door gently behind him, and pours himself a mug of coffee, adding in a splash of the skim milk he buys instead of 2% now that they’re training again. He turns on the TV, flips to TSN, and half watches baseball highlights on mute while he sips his coffee, washes the wine glasses, sets them upside down in the dishrack to dry, and rinses the wine bottle before dropping it into the recycling bin.

It’s 7:38 when Tessa emerges, dressed in her leggings and drowning in one of his t-shirts. Her hair is piled high on her head and her face is freshly washed. The coffee mug she carries is empty. She rinses her mug, places it directly in the dishwasher, and stands on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek before she picks up her purse.

“Have a good class, T,” he says. She gives him a warm smile on her way out the door. Her condo is right down the hall and if she hurries, she’ll be able to change and make her class with a couple minute to spare.

It’s not until she’s gone that he lets himself wonder. There was no awkwardness, no sideways glances or hesitation. In the past, when he’d allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if this ever took this step, he’d always imagined a shift, their entire relationship tilting on its axis, and not necessarily in a good way. But instead it feels… normal? Well, not necessarily normal because regardless of what anyone thinks, this is the first time they’ve taken this particular step together, but maybe like just a new aspect of their impossible-to-define relationship.

In the end though, what he wants more than anything is for her to be happy, regardless of whether that means she wants him again this way or not at all, regardless of the fact that he knows now that he does want to do this again.

He’d like to go to the gym, it’d help him clear his mind, but today is supposed to be a recovery day, so he commits to cleaning his condo instead, not a distraction technique he’s employed historically, but he pulls up a Spotify playlist and gets to work. It ends up being mostly effective, even therapeutic, but with the occasional reminder that she’d spent the night in a distinctly non-platonic way. It’s been a long time, at least six months, since anyone has left a lacy black thong on the floor of his bedroom and just as long since there’s been a used condom knotted in the bathroom garbage.

He throws his sheets in the wash, knowing that if she ends up back in his bed, she’ll appreciate the gesture and if she doesn’t, well then he’s probably better off if they smell like his detergent instead of her shampoo. It’s a win win, really.

Three hours later, condo sparkling and clean laundry, including the shirt and panties she left behind, neatly folded, he grabs a shower. It’s not until he’s soaping himself down under the warm spray that he notices the hickey low on his hip and his mind, which he’d been doing an okay job of moderating up to that point, takes a dive into the gutter and suddenly all he can think about is how she tied her hair back and worked her way, all grazing teeth and wet tongue, from his neck to his chest and down his stomach until she wrapped her lips around him, swallowed him whole, and gazed up at him from between his legs, gauging his response and smiling around his cock.

And just like that he’s rock hard in the shower and, well, if it had to happen somewhere, at least this is a convenient place to jerk off...

\---

Three days pass and nothing has changed. They work harder and smarter than they’ve ever worked, practice better than they’ve ever practiced, and recover purposefully. They’re communicating well, too, better than ever before, both on the ice and off, during and outside of their sessions with JF. But they don’t talk about it, not about what it meant or how it felt or whether they should or shouldn’t do it again. It’s not awkward, not a distraction that’s hanging over their heads or holding them back, because then they’d definitely talk about it, and so Scott mentally files the entire encounter neatly in a folder in his mind reserved just for Tessa where it doesn’t clutter his thoughts, but can be referenced as needed.

——

On the fourth day, a Wednesday, they make dinner together like always, well, she comes over so he can make dinner for both of them because while neither of them are amazing cooks by any means, he’s significantly more comfortable in the kitchen. It was a challenging training day and they’re both more tired than hungry, but proper nutrition is key to recovery, so he cooks while she lies flat on her back on the floor, legs elevated up the wall, and plays songs from their “Wednesday” Spotify playlist through the bluetooth speaker on his kitchen counter.

They make quiet conversation over dinner, talk about plans for her sister's upcoming birthday and the videos Danny sent from his niece’s recent ballet recital. They clear the table together, load the dishwasher, and leave the dirty pots and pans in the sink to soak.

“Wanta watch an episode of Suits?” she asks. They’ve been watching the show on Netflix together, chipping away at the second season when they can find the time.

“Sure,” he says. “But give me a minute to brush my teeth.”

She nods and he heads down the hall, stepping into his bedroom to change into sleep pants and a t-shirt, so he can pass out as soon as the episode is over; getting back into competition shape has been more of an effort for him than it’s been for her and while it’s been getting easier, he’s still exhausted all the time.

He passes Tessa in the hall as he makes his way to the bathroom and she heads into his bedroom. The spare toothbrush he keeps stashed in the medicine cabinet has been opened and stands, damp, next to his in the cup on the counter. By the time he makes it into the living room, she’s curled up on the couch in her sports bra and a rolled up pair of his flannel pants; an episode of Suits is queued up on the TV and so he joins her on the couch, lifting his arm, so she can tuck herself against his side.

Forty-five minutes later, she wakes him up by gently running her fingers through his hair. The TV is off and the living room is dark; it’s probably only 11, but he feels like a zombie.

“Mmhphh,” he says.

“Very dramatic,” she says. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She takes his hand, helps him up from the couch, and leads him down the hall to his bedroom. He’s not conscious enough to think too hard when she crawls into bed next to him, but slings an arm around her waist and tugs her close before he drops off to sleep.


	2. It Keeps Happening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It happens again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and encouragement so far! I hope you enjoy chapter two!
> 
> As usual, this chapter is un-beta’d and my mistakes are my own.

_July 2016 - Montreal, Quebec_

It happens again.

Not right away, but a few weeks later when they’re back in Montreal after a much needed trip home, she with her mom and sister at the cottage in Bayfield and he at a cousin’s wedding in Ilderton.

They’ve been busy, High Performance Camp is on the horizon, and they’ve been addressing comeback nerves in their sessions with JF. They’re both on edge, but working to rein in their emotions, control what they can control and let go of the rest. Even after all these years, neither of them has it down to a science.

They’re working with B2ten, too, analyzing everything from their dietary needs, to their recovery schedule, to their warm up and cool down routines. They spend two weeks wearing special shirts with built in sensors to track their heart rates and sleep patterns and god knows whatever else.

The data shows that he sleeps better than Tessa, not that he thinks it’s a competition, but the look she shoots him when they’re reviewing the results makes him wonder if she’s thinking of it that way. He can’t help it, he falls asleep quickly and wakes up easily with his first (only) alarm; if he could lend her those skills, he would, doubly so since now she sometimes jostles him awake with all her tossing and turning.

——

She knocks on his door on a Tuesday at 10, but lets herself in with her spare key before he can get up from the couch. He’d been on the verge of heading to bed.

“Hey, T,” he says.

She doesn’t answer, just offers him a soft smile (her eyes are tired), locks the front door behind her, and heads down the hall towards his bedroom. He switches off the TV and the living room lights and stops in the bathroom to brush his teeth before following her.

She’s curled up under the duvet, pale shoulder peeking out, on what he’s begun to think of as her side of the bed. Her jeans and t-shirt are folded neatly on his dresser and her hair is loose across the pillow. This has been happening lately, this thing where she slips into his bed and they sleep, wound together, breathing each other in. He hasn’t knocked on her door, hasn’t crawled into her bed, because this is still early days and he knows she needs her alone time to recharge.

They haven’t had sex again, not since that first night; he’s waiting on her to initiate because even though they haven’t had an actual conversation about any of this, he understands that she’s feeling this out and this is _Tessa_ and he can be patient.

He strips down to his underwear, deposits his dirty clothes in the hamper, turns off the overhead light, and crawls into bed behind her. When he drops an arm around her waist and tugs her towards him, however, he’s greeted by nothing but soft, bare skin. When she pushes her hips back, grinding her ass into his crotch, he inhales sharply and runs his hand firmly across her abs, curls his fingers around her hip; she isn’t wearing panties either.

“T,” he hisses, shifting his hips as his dick immediately perks up at the attention. There’s no way she doesn’t feel him pressed up against her. “Tell me what you want.”

She takes the question at face value because there is no double meaning. He’s not asking her to define this something that’s happening between them, not asking her for commitment past the bounds of their partnership, he’s asking her what she wants from him in the here and now.

“I want to feel you inside me,” she says, honestly, grinding again against his erection.

“Okay,” he says, burying his face in her neck, inhaling, pressing lingering, wet kisses along her shoulder, shifting his grip from her hip to run the tips of his fingers up her ribs and ghosting over her nipples, which pebble under his touch. She draws in a sharp breath, arches her back.

For all the momentus and mundane things they’ve discussed over the years, for all the ways they understand each other, sex is new for them and, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s pretty hung up on the idea of blowing her mind. It’s not that the first time wasn’t great, because it was fucking wonderful, but one of the many things he loves about sex is that it can _always_ be better.

“How do you want it, T?”

——

As if to make up for all the conversations they’re not having about the shift in their relationship outside of this bed, they talk, a lot, during sex.

Scott has always been open, vocal, and enthusiastic, traits that carry over into the way he approaches sex. He gets off on pleasing his partners, likes teetering on the edge, holding off as he draws orgasm after orgasm out of the woman in his bed. He checks in, wants feedback, moves confidently, but also knows that every woman responds differently to his fingers, his teeth, his tongue. His inclination is to take charge, but few things get him harder than a woman who knows what revs her up, a woman who tells him what she wants from him, takes exactly what she needs from him.

Tessa has always been responsive, committed, and thorough. She knows her body inside and out, has had enough sex to understand exactly what works for her, what she needs from her partners and what they want in return from her. She’s far too comfortable in her own skin by this point to hesitate when he releases her nipple with a wet pop and glances up for affirmation.

“Don’t be afraid to use your teeth,” she says, and he doesn’t bat an eyelash, just _hmmms_ and lowers his head to get back to work. She can feel him grin against her breast a moment later when her breath hitches, her hips buck, and she winds her fingers into his hair, tugging at the roots.

“Faster,” she chokes out later when he’s taking his sweet time between her legs, when he’s mapping her out with his hands and mouth, tracing circles around her clit with his tongue, and slowly fucking her with two fingers, curling them inside her as she pants, hovering on the edge of an orgasm, her hips rising, shoving up against his mouth until she tips, whimpering and clenching wetly around him.

When he crawls back up her body, shit eating grin plastered across his face, which is still wet with her, she has recovered just enough to throw one leg around his hip and flip them. He lands flat on his back with an _oomph_ , and she straddles him, dripping down her thighs, and grabs a handful of his hair and pulls his mouth up to her’s, tasting herself on his tongue.

“Enough about me,” she says, pulling back, taking in his heavy breathing, dilated eyes. "Tell me what you like." And so he does.

They both sleep soundly that night. B2ten would be so proud.

——

Scott wakes up to the alarm on his phone at 5 AM, a full fifteen minutes before the sun’s even up. Curled up next to him, Tessa lets out a little groan, but doesn’t budge, so he climbs out of bed and heads, naked, into the kitchen where the coffee is already brewing. He pours her a cup, doctors it, and walks it back into the bedroom.

“Coffee, T,” he says, depositing it on the nightstand and leaning over to drop a kiss onto her shoulder. “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”

She groans and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a curse word, which makes him grin.

“That’s the spirit, Tess. Up and at em.”

By the time he returns from the bathroom ten minutes later, she’s sitting up in bed, bleary eyed, hair framing her face in a messy halo, and clutching the coffee to her chest as if her life depends on it.

“Shower’s all yours,” he says. She eyes him grumpily and takes another sip of coffee.

He’s already dressed and in the kitchen boiling water for poached eggs when he hears the shower, but she gets ready quickly, always has, despite her chronic aversion to mornings, and she’s sitting at the kitchen counter, dressed and nursing a second cup of coffee when he slides breakfast- two poached eggs, one slice of whole grain toast, and a half an avocado- in front of her.

They eat in a silence that becomes progressively more companionable as the caffeine makes its way into her bloodstream. 

“Thank you,” she says as she stands, collects both of their plates, and sets them in the dishwasher. He smiles at her back, wide and toothy, and feels oddly flattered that he’d managed to get two words out of her before 6 AM and her third cup of coffee.

“Any time.”

——

It keeps happening.

July bleeds into August and nearly every night they’re in the same city, they’re together. By mid-August he’s recognized that his bed, be it in Montreal or at home in Ilderton or with buddies in Ottawa, feels empty without her, that he sleeps better with her back pressed against his chest.

It’s then that he consciously sets aside time to think about it, legitimately schedules a half hour on a Thursday evening to do nothing but purposefully reflect on what he wants, where he wants this to go. He’s not going to push her, but he intends to be prepared when she’s ready to talk; he owes her as much.

“What’s this thirty minute block on your calendar,” she asks, gesturing to her iPhone where her schedule is overlaid with his. He left the 8 PM hold untitled. It had taken her approximately two hours and one water break to notice.

He raises an eyebrow.

“It’s _me_ time, Snoopy McSnooperson,” he says and shoots her a wink. She rolls her eyes, slides her phone back into her bag, and doesn’t push.

“Okay if I come over at 8:30 then?”

It’s the first time either of them have acknowledged the situation outside of his apartment and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised.

“Of course, T.”

And though he dutifully attempts to ignore it, for the rest of practice there’s a small fire crackling in his chest.


	3. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The talk finally happens, just not how either of them thought it would

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all kind comments! I'm sorry it took me so long to find the inspiration to finish this piece, but I hope you enjoy it and I'd love to hear what you think in the comments!
> 
> Once again, this chapter is un-beta’d and my mistakes are my own.

_September 2, 2016 - Bayfield, Ontario_

Scott wakes up on the morning of his 29th birthday to Tessa clambering back into bed. The clock on the bedside table reads 7:17 AM, which is impressively early for her on a non-training day.

“Coffee’s brewing. I thought about whipping up a batch of pancakes, but didn’t think you’d appreciate being woken up by the smoke alarm,” she says, crawling across the duvet and straddling his lap. “Consider it a birthday present.”

“And here I thought we didn’t do birthday presents,” he says, raising an eyebrow and running his hands up her thighs to toy with the hem of her sleep shorts.

She rolls her eyes, but leans down to kiss him firmly on the mouth, morning breath be damned.

“Are you insinuating that you don’t want your other present,” she asks, sitting back up and running her nails lightly down his bare chest and abs. He shivers in response and rolls his hips up into her.

“I’m insinuating nothing of the sort.”

\---

It’s past 8 by the time they make it down to the kitchen, sated and freshly showered, where Scott cooks breakfast and Tessa provides moral support from her perch on the counter, lobbing a fat purple grape at his head when he pokes fun at her definition of helping.

(“I was going to offer to do the dishes, but you’re on your own now, bucko”)

They’re spending the first two days of Labour Day weekend at the cottage on Lake Huron. Kate and Jordan are driving in to spend Sunday and Monday, but Scott plans to head out bright and early Sunday, taking his own car back to Ilderton to spend time with his family.

By unspoken agreement, neither of them have mentioned their _thing_ to their families, or to anyone else for that matter. It’s the secrecy, more than anything else, that’s complicated. They’re not _really_ sneaking around, they don’t live at home, so no one’s climbing in or out of anyone’s bedroom window, and their families already know that they spend most of their time together, but it’s been a few months now and even omission has become a little taxing.

What’s not taxing, however, what’s actually gotten even easier and more comfortable, is their relationship, or not relationship (whichever, really). This has been nothing short of incredible. Scott has never been in a _thing_ this easy.

Jess was five years of long distance mood swings and bullshit partner dynamics. Cassandra wanted more than he could give her, more time and attention than he had to offer. Kaitlyn was great, honestly, better than he deserved and a bright spot during his darker post-Sochi days, but even she didn’t stand a chance once Tessa hinted that she missed competition.

Being with Tessa, even without a label, feels comfortable. And it’s not to say that they don’t sometimes disagree, that they don’t sometimes need space; they’ve lived in each other’s pockets for twenty years and it’s not perfect, but perfection is bullshit and what they have together is pretty fucking wonderful.

\---

They spend the rest of Friday morning on the lake paddle boarding. Tessa’s foray into teaching him paddle board yoga quickly devolves into a headstand contest, which she’s winning until he tips her into the water and leaps in to splash her again when she pops back up.

“You’re a sore loser, Moir,” she grumps, recovering her paddle, but she lets him kiss her and squeaks when he pinches her ass underwater.

By the time they break for lunch, they’re both a little sunburnt, though she’ll peel and freckle and he’ll develop an even tan. Back at the cottage, he slathers an extra layer of sunscreen on her shoulders, kisses the tip of her nose, and fires up the grill to make lunch. They eat on the deck, grilled chicken sandwiches with provolone and BBQ sauce and a beer apiece, enough of a departure from their strict nutritional regime to feel like a treat.

After lunch, they tie inner tubes to the dock with long pieces of twine and bob next to each other, soaking in the sun with their books (though she’s put on a floppy hat and a sun shirt). She’s reading All the Light We Cannot See and he’s working on Bobby Orr’s autobiography. It’s a relaxing day, the most relaxing day they’ve had in weeks.

Later that night, after dinner and a movie and a shared bottle of red wine, she leads him upstairs and leaves him to wait while she disappears into the en suite bathroom. She hasn’t touched him yet, but the glint in her eye as she she the door behind her already has his imagination running wild and his dick half hard.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The door swings open and she steps out, clad in deep green, lace corset, matching thong, and sheer, thigh high stockings. His breath catches as he takes her in, mesmerized as she slinks over to him, as she rests her palm on his chest.

“Fuck, Tess,” he rasps, jaw clenching as he takes her in, but when he reaches out to touch her, she catches his wrists.

“None of that,” she whispers, leaning around to nibble his ear. He shudders and obeys, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Good boy.”

And she’s barely touched him, but he’s already straining uncomfortably in his jeans, and that’s before he notices the scarves. She must have been holding them the entire time, but he’d been, understandably, preoccupied. They’ve talked about this before, her fantasies, his fantasies, but this is the first time she’s made _this_ move and he doesn’t think he’s been more ready for anything in his entire life.

“Tess?”

“Take off your shirt and lay down,” she instructs. “I’ve got it from here.”

\---

_September 3, 2016 - Bayfield, Ontario_

The conversation, when it finally happens, isn’t planned or expected or convenient. It’s the crunch of car tires on the gravel driveway just past eight on Saturday morning when they’re still lying in bed, naked, scarves she used to tie him up the night before still hanging from the bed frame.

Scott climbs out of bed, pads over to the window that overlooks the driveway, and peers down through a crack in the curtain. A very familiar, dark-haired woman and a less familiar man are unloading bags from the back of a white sedan.

“It’s Jordan,” he says, turning back to Tessa. “And that Tobin guy. They’re unpacking the car.”

“Shit,” Tessa says, sitting up in bed. “She wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

“Guess they had the same idea we did,” Scott says, and walks back over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“What should we tell them?” She asks, glancing over at him.

And this is it. They’re going to do this now, him perched butt ass naked on the edge of the bed, her sitting up, back against the headboard, sheet pooled around her waist; they have maybe three minutes.

“I’ve thought about this, Tess. A lot,” he says, reaching out for her hand. She reaches back and he threads his fingers through hers. “I want you to be happy and I want gold in Korea. And I don’t think that us being together, I mean really, officially together, jeopardizes either of those things.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but he gently squeezes her hand, stopping her.

“But, and I’m being one hundred percent serious here, if that isn’t what you want, if being with me isn’t what you want or if you’re worried that we’re risking our shot at that medal or anything, then you can tell me and I will be okay with that and we can take a step back from this and it won’t affect our partnership and it won’t change the fact that I love you. We’ll tell them whatever you feel comfortable telling them.”

Two minutes down.

“This isn’t how I saw us having this conversation,” she says quietly, smiling and squeezing his hand. “But I think you’re right. I want to do this for real. I want to be able to tell my sister about this amazing guy I’m dating.”

He’s smiling so hard that his face actually hurts.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She leans forward and presses a kiss right to the wide grin still plastered across his face.

“Tess, you awake?” Jordan calls up the stairs. “I didn’t think you’d be here until tomorrow. Why is there a second car out front?”

“Yeah, Jo,” Tessa calls back. “Scott and I will be down in a minute.”


End file.
